


painkiller

by poppytears



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater, The Raven Boys, the dream thieves
Genre: All good things must come to an end, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs, Book 2: The Dream Thieves, Boys Being Boys, Canon Universe, Car Sex, Dialogue, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreams vs. Reality, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, Hand Jobs, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inner Dialogue, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Metaphors, Minor Richard Gansey III/Ronan Lynch, My First Fanfic, One Shot, POV Ronan Lynch, References to Drugs, Ronan Lynch is Bad at Feelings, Smut, Soft Joseph Kavinsky, Some Plot, Swearing, The Dream Thieves - Freeform, The Raven Cycle - Freeform, and kavinsky was without a doubt in love, but as it is ronan will never mourn or forgive him, god i love ronan, i first had this idea two years ago, i think that if kavinsky hadnt gone crazy ronan and him would have been together, it took me this long to write it out, kavinsky is teaching ronan how to dream, ronan wakes up, ronan's tattoo, the sexual tension between them was so heavy in the book, this isn't their first time with each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-09 22:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18926074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppytears/pseuds/poppytears
Summary: ronan wakes up with a headache.





	painkiller

You find yourself suddenly and violently thrown from sleep. Your body, still frozen after the departure from your dream, is slumped against the door in the backseat of the car. It is night outside. Your shirt is gone and you have no memory of taking it off, though the ache behind your eyes reminds you that it probably has something to do with alcohol.

This particular stint into consciousness will inevitably be brief, like the many others that came before it; Kavinsky is in the front seat, playing idly with a few pills and staring out the windshield into the darkened field. The pills will be yours in a matter of minutes, and you will fall back into the umbral hands of your dreams. You try to recall how long it has been since Kavinsky brought you here. You fail.

Your mind begins to return your body to you, and you decide to attempt movement. You make a fist with your right hand. Something soft is crushed in your grasp – you guess you should have remembered that it came out of your dream with you – and a blue, sweet-smelling sap drips between your fingers.

Kavinsky turns to look at you. He isn’t wearing his shades; those are on the dashboard. They lie next to several messy, half-gone and scattered lines of coke. His pupils are dilated and his eyes are wide. He grins at you, but it is crooked and distant.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he slurs. “Did you get me something nice?”

You do not answer, instead focusing on bringing motion to the rest of your body. Your arms obey, and you push yourself up shakily to sit across the seat. Kavinsky climbs from the front to sit in the back with you, pulling your legs over his lap. You would protest but you know it is no use, especially if he is high, so you let him do what he wants. Who cares, anyways? There's no one here to judge, with the exception of your own conscience. He takes your hand and opens your fingers. The blue sap trickles into his palm. You think you could probably move your legs now, if you tried, but you don’t bother. You watch his expression as he inspects the sticky pulp in your hand.

“What the fuck is this?” he asks. He licks some of the sap off his fingers. “Tastes like… candy mixed with shit. Not impressed, Lynch.” 

The word _Camaro_ sits heavily in the silence, like a stormcloud. “It was a flower. I’m allowed to fuck up every once in a while,” you tell him, irritated by his arrogance and your failure. The petals were so delicate that they dissolved into a fleshy, wet paste as soon as your hand closed around them. A few golden flakes are visible in the blue. You suspect they may be the remains of leaves or stamen, and the line between reality and dream begins to blur. 

The image of the flower as it had been in your mind swims before you. The world was made of them. They had been crushed underfoot as you walked, and their perfume was the only air in your lungs. You had picked this one out of a blue, opaque lake, where it drifted gently over the surface of the water. There had been thousands of them. The lake stretched on forever. 

"Well, get rid of it,” Kavinsky complains, snapping you out of your lapis-lazuli-tinted reverie. He passes you some sort of dark fabric and you wipe off what is left of the flower from your hand without a thought. Then you realize it is your missing shirt, and you throw it back at his face. 

“Fuck you,” you say, with no real anger. “Don’t touch my shit again.” 

He laughs, smiles his weird distant smile, and rolls down the window and throws it out. It is swallowed by the night. “Whatever,” he says dismissively, “it’s not like you don’t have a million more of the exact same one.” 

You suppose this is true – neither of you are big on fashion – but you don’t want to surrender anything to him, so you reply by leaning your head back against the cool window and closing your eyes. You feel like you could slip again into unconsciousness, unaccompanied by the pills this time, but you dread sleep without them. Since you’ve started this with Kavinsky, there has been no danger; there has not been a single nightmare. You have conquered your own mind. Your dreams have bent to your will. 

If you were being honest with yourself, the risk of undoing it all and losing the progress scares you. So does your growing dependency on his dream pills. But when have you ever been honest with yourself? 

You feel Kavinsky move. You open your eyes again. He sits on his knees over your legs. The pills are out of his hand and you look around the car to find the place where they have been deposited, which you quickly identify as the armrest between the two front seats. An involuntary feeling of relief moves sluggishly through your veins. 

You meet Kavinsky’s glazed eyes. At some point his shirt came off too; as his chest rises and falls with a hard, manic breathing, his ribcage presses to his skin. He’s shaking a little bit, and you marvel at the perpetual motion machine that is Joseph Kavinsky, a constant war of moving, ticking muscle and bone. He isn’t really your type, but you’re too drunk to care. 

Something about you must have changed – something tiny about your expression or your body that you did subconsciously, and he caught on to – because he takes it as permission and he reaches towards your waistband. You feel dumb letting him do it so you reach down, too, but he doesn’t move away and it ends up being a drugged, hazy fight to get your jeans off. You want to laugh. What the fuck are you doing here? What are either of you doing here? The question loses meaning when his hands touch your bare skin. 

You wonder if he’s done this with anyone else before you. You wonder what exactly he had been dreaming of when he created his pack of dogs, what stoned throes of nighttime ecstasy had birthed Prokopenko and Skov and the others. One of his hands is pressed to your abdomen and the other is on your dick. He’s not really doing much yet – he’s teasing, his fingers going up and down without effort, taking his time – and you’re furious that it feels so good, it feels better than anything you’ve ever done, and you know it’s the alcohol but you hate it anyways. You watch his fingertips circle the head and your hips jerk. He stops. You feel like screaming. 

He looks at you, his eyes perfectly empty, and it is somehow worse than his strange, spaced-out smile. You want to hit him, you want to hear the bones crunch upon impact, you want the blood. Fuck, you want his mouth on you. You want to feel his lips. 

His gaze holds. You can’t let yourself be the one to break it so you stare back, even as he begins to move his hand again. You can feel the wetness already. If this were any other situation, you would be embarrassed, but since it’s Kavinsky and you and his BMW in an abandoned field at nighttime you guess you haven’t got much further to sink past this point. His hand slips a little and falters, and he looks down – you feel vaguely triumphant – but then he rubs his thumb over the tip and sends an impossible wave of pleasure coursing through you. Your head falls back and your fingers curl around the edge of the seat. Then his lips are on you, and then his tongue. 

The euphoria is immediate and overwhelming, and the anger dissipates. The only thing left now is a deep and desperate need for more. God, how you want more. The world narrows until all that exists is the heat of his mouth and the heavy, intoxicating thrill it gives you. Your hips begin to roll forward and soon the movement becomes uncontrollable. You’re losing yourself in the sensation, and fuck, it’s so good but it isn’t enough. You become dimly aware of an unsteady, breathy moaning, and you think it’s coming from Kavinsky until your brain catches up to your body and you realize it’s you. 

He pulls back and smiles that goddamn smile again. The breath catches in your throat. Your dick is hard and wet, and the lack of contact is already driving you insane, but you don’t dare touch yourself and risk revealing that to him. He blinks, slowly. His eyelashes are soft and striking against his dilated pupils and unfocused eyes. You find yourself wanting to touch his face or his hair, gently, and the visceral repulsiveness of the idea gives you something to hate again. The violent anger creeps back in and settles above your heart. He’s just finished asking, “you like that, bitch?” when you push his head back down and thrust your hips up. 

He coughs around you with dreamy, indignant surprise, but he goes with it. You give him little alternative. You’ve relinquished what fleeting dignity either of you held onto; the blowjob has deteriorated into a messy, shameless facefuck, and every time you force his head down the electricity sets you on fire. Your eyes roll back, the warm pressure is obscenely erotic, and you make a noise so pornographic that you’d despise yourself for it if you had been coherent. You struggle to keep his name from slipping past your lips. Your head swirls with the sound of it. _God, K, oh that feels – fuck, so good. K, so good – oh! K_. Your mouth fills with it, vastly unspoken. 

His hands claw up your sides and cling to you as you move. The sensation of his fingers pressing into your skin is almost too much. If you had been sober and he tried this, you would make him bleed red regret in any way possible, but this time you only punish him by lacing your fingers through his hair and pushing him down. A fresh surge of pleasure rushes from your dick straight to your head, makes your vision cloud up and swell with stars. Considering how drunk you are, this isn’t going to last for much longer – a tension pools at the bottom of your stomach and your hips move with a little more urgency. Thought is futile; the feeling of his tongue dominates your mind. There’s something else that you can’t quite place but, my God, it's really fucking good, so you thrust up one more time. As the heat washes over you, you decide it must be your dick hitting the back of his throat, and the idea is deliriously, unimaginably dirty. You cave in and you say his name, once, just a syllable of a letter, and then it overwhelms you. 

As your body shudders to a halt, he keeps going. Your hips jerk erratically and he takes it and the pleasure doesn’t end, it ripples through you over and over and it becomes almost unbearable. You don’t know when your eyes shut but at some point they do and the starbursts unfold in the darkness to match your heartbeat. You know you’re being disgustingly loud, but you can’t help it – the moaning and incoherent swearing spills desperately out, and your struggle to repress it not even two minutes ago is largely forgotten. For what feels like a lifetime, your entire being is made up of the hot, pulsing feeling between your legs. 

Eventually the pressure and warmth of his mouth disappears and the pleasure fades away, and you are delivered back to corporeality. A shiver runs through you – the finality of the warm, sultry afterglow. You fight to open your eyes and the sight of Kavinsky, back on his knees on the other side of the seat, greets you. He doesn’t immediately notice you watching, and he absent-mindedly wipes something away from his cheek with the back of his hand. You stop yourself from thinking too much about what it obviously is. Something about this relationship, like your dream flower, is too fragile, too divorced from reality, to be touched or handled or thought about. You don’t entertain fantasies. One day you will crush it to death, this thing you have with Kavinsky, and his rage and venom will pour out from around your fingers. You’ll be ready for it. He will be your last night horror. 

For now, though, you are content to let the both of you dream a little. If he suspects your eventual treachery, he shows nothing of it. 

He recognizes that you’ve come down from your high. He doesn’t say anything, but he crawls over and collapses on top of you. His head rests on your chest. You allow yourself a moment of pointed disbelief. 

“What are you _doing_?” you ask. If this were any other time, he would already be in pain; as of right now, though, you are light-headed and falling asleep and the last thing you want to do is move. The alcohol is settling back into its aching presence behind your eyes. You remember that the dream pills are an arm’s length away. 

"What's it look like? I’m fucking sleeping,” he says. His fingers trail along the coiled, inky path of your tattoo, which snakes around from your back. In your mind, you see it on his dream-self’s tongue as he swallows it. A hot, shameful thrill courses through your body. You don't know what it means, and you don't really want to know. What does that make you, though?

 _Scio quid estis vos_.

But does he? Does God? Do _you?_

His light, ethereal touch is infinitely more intimate than his fingernails digging into your sides or even his mouth on your dick. You wonder how car sex could draw less confusion and guilt than a gentle tracing of a tattoo on bare skin. He’s never done this before, not in any of the times you’ve fucked around in the last several days, and the suggestion of genuine affection alarms you. Still though, after some hesitation, you put your arm around him and it rises and falls with his breathing. You don't want to admit to yourself that the pressure of his body on yours is gratifying, and something you have been burning to feel, just once. The dissonance makes you angry. You try to choke the fury down: it is a bright red painkiller pill, hard and sinful and sickening, and working too slowly to numb you. You seethe at your own vulnerability. You could break him in an instant. He knows it as well. When did you allow yourself to become so soft as to let Kavinsky trust you like this? 

A vision of Gansey fights its way to the surface of your dull, conflicting thoughts. You want to apologize to him; you are well aware of the fact that everything, up until this point at least, has been your fault. You brought the nightmares in. You crashed the Pig. You found your dad’s body where it lay on the gravel of the driveway. Instead of absolution, though, Gansey’s neck, his collarbones, and his honey-tanned skin are offered to you, and you’re nauseated by how much you want it. You miss him to such an extent that it makes you sick. The golden glow that Gansey carries is electrifying; not even the sun is a rival to him, let alone yourself. God, you're in deep, and it turns you on a little at the same time that it hurts you badly and leaves you alone in a world of guilt and revulsion. It is your own never-ending betrayal of him. It is a breach of his love and trust. 

Kavinsky’s delicate, spiraling touch is so elating and so full of unfamiliar affection that it begins to overwhelm you. The vision of Gansey watches in contempt and disappointment from behind your eyelids as you let Kavinsky run his fingers over your chest, your shoulder, your sides. Deep down in your scorched, burnt-out heart, you know that you want this type of love. You've always wanted it. The only trouble is that you just didn't want it from him. 

You think it's time to escape. 

You reach for the pills – careful not to displace K – and knock a couple back. You close your eyes. They are already starting to take effect. You remind yourself that you have a goal.

“What do you want?” you ask into the silence. You want things to be alright again. You want Gansey to be alright again. You want the Pig back. And this is the way you are going to do it. 

Just as you slip back into darkness, you hear Kavinsky whisper, "You."


End file.
